


Simple Man

by trueunbeliever



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (figuratively), Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Destiel - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Trapped In A Closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-07 16:06:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1905267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trueunbeliever/pseuds/trueunbeliever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows Dean Winchester is a simple man—cold beer and cute girls and homemade pie and his Baby. But not everything is black and white. One teenage ruse and Dean is committed to hiding behind closed doors where no one can find out his dirty secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One Ruse

**Author's Note:**

> This has been floating around in my head for a while, and I'm happy to say that it's finally out :) Five chapters in total will be posted: one per day until the fic is complete. 
> 
> *SPOILERS: up to, and including, s05e17 of Supernatural.
> 
> Hope you all like, Fearless Readers. Read on!

It was a bar not unlike every other bar in existence. There was music, a little dancing, but mostly the patrons were at tables or on stools, nursing whatever drinks caught their fancy. Dead didn’t really know much about bars. It was the first time he’d actually been allowed to step foot in one. He was only sixteen, but with his muscled bulk and his recent growth spurt, no one would question the fake ID he had with him.

It was the first time he’d ever been in a bar, but it definitely wasn’t the first time he’d had a few beers. Usually, after a good Hunt, his father would reward him and they’d chill in whatever backwater hotel they were staying at and just relax, beer in hand, polishing off a twelve pack like it was water. Sammy wasn’t old enough to drink with them, but root beer was good enough for him on those nights.

Dean nearly chuckled, remembering the time he’d let Sammy try a sip of his beer when their father wasn’t looking. The face he’d made: priceless. It wasn’t all that hard to convince him from there on out that drinking, especially as much as any Hunter they came across drank, was bad. Even when offered, he always stuck with root beer.

Dean wish he could have stuck with root beer at the moment. His palms were sweaty, bottle clenched a bit too tight in his hand to be natural, but worst of all, he was conveying a look of pure nervousness that would get him noticed—something nobody, especially a Hunter, wanted.

He forced himself to calm down, not closing his eyes or taking a deep breath, but controlling his breathing to slow his quick-beating heart. He forced his muscles taught for a quick moment, then relaxed all of them at once, and put a lazy smile on his face that was sure to stop a few hearts. It was a look he’d seen on his father’s face and one that he’d practiced in the mirror enough that it was seamless to imitate now. He flashed that smile around the bar, making eye contact with every woman he could see, single or taken, and settled back in his stool, waiting for an approach.

He wasn’t even three quarters of a beer down when the first woman came up to him. She was young and pretty, light freckles peppering her nose and long brown hair that he could get lost in. She was tall, that was for sure, just two inches shorter than his five foot eleven, and that smile. Damn. It was perfect. Pink lips, like the real pink, not that pale reddish pink that peoples’ lips tended to look like, but a real light baby pink that he knew was natural, no makeup added. Her teeth were an unbleached white and her eyelashes were full, nearly hiding shining green eyes that were a rival to his own. _This_ was the one. _This_ was the girl.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey yourself.” He winked, causing her to giggle, a little embarrassed.

“I’m Lisa.”

“Dean,” he said, making eye contact and holding it.

Her cheeks flushed and she bit her bottom lip, bringing his attention to her mouth. It was plush and looked so soft, like velvet. Yeah, she was the perfect one, the one no one would be able to dispute.

“Wanna dance?” he asked her.

She did.

Two beers and a dozen songs later, she was beckoning him to the side door toward the alley, a horrible spot as far as Dean was concerned, but he didn’t say anything. He just grabbed his jacket from the back of his stool and eyed the room for someone in particular.

From across the bar, he caught his father’s eye and lifted his chin, silently communicating that he was off. His father tipped his beer and nodded his head. A quick glance at the clock and Dean realized he was noting the time, just in case something went wrong. He had about fifteen minutes before his father got antsy, twenty before he got worried, and twenty-five before he came busting into the alley to look for Dean.

He could work with that.

Dean plastered the smirk back on his face as he walked outside, but inside, he was twisted into knots. It was getting harder to control his breathing and the anxiety was rising inside of him. What if it didn’t work? What if it didn’t go well? What if he screwed it all up somehow? What if he was wrong about her, if she was the wrong person?

But then they reached a somewhat secluded spot in the alleyway—behind a dumpster, how romantic—and she turned around with a sweet smile. He couldn’t help but release a shaky breath. This _had_ to work.

“So,” she said, putting her arms around his neck, angling for a kiss. “You have me all alone.”

“Yeah,” he hesitated.

She quirked an eyebrow, a silent question.

“Uh, you see… Look,” he said, wanting to back out of her grip, but staying put. “I… sort of need your help.”

“Okay?”

This was probably the furthest thing on her mind, but he really _did_ need her help. His plan wouldn’t work without her. The problem was that he didn’t know where to begin. It was complicated— _stupid_ , his mind supplied—and no doubt unusual, but, damn, he needed it to work. His dad was already suspicious. He needed to do something, _now_.

“So…” It shouldn’t be this hard.

“So?” she prompted. Her cheeks were still flushed, but it was with the cold now. Any thoughts of sex were gone, out of her head completely. Lust was no longer a part of the equation and that, alone, made it easier to speak.

“I’m not… I’m gay,” he whispered. It was the first time he’d ever said it out loud. It didn’t feel as good as he thought it would. If anything, it just made him feel worse.

“Of course you are,” she said, getting angry now. “Because that’s what gay men do. They flirt with woman and follow them out into the alley after implications of sex. Why the hell did _I_ have to pick the strange one?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, looking and feeling dejected. He really was no good at this.

“You know there’s a gay bar like ten minutes from here, right?”

Actually, Dean _did_ know. It just hadn’t been in the cards. “Yeah,” he said.

“So you’re here, why?”

They still hadn’t moved from their positions, standing a bit too close with his arms around her waist and hers around his neck, though it was more so for warmth now than anything. She had to be _freezing_ in nothing but a skirt and tank top. Obviously, she’d been hoping for something else to keep her warm.

Dean dropped his hands and she followed suit, letting her arms fall to her sides. He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on her shoulders. It was warm from being on him and the leather would keep it that way.

“Thanks,” she murmured, pulling it tighter around her.

“My dad’s in there,” he said, answering her question.

“Oh,” she said, and it sounded like she understood. “So you want him to think you scored with a chick and I was just the first to approach you?”

“Kinda,” he said sheepishly. It didn’t sound like she was judging him, but the tone was definitely self-conscious, and it was something he could fix easily. “Actually,” he said. “I sort of picked you out especially. You just happened to be the first to come up to me, but if it was someone else, I would have turned them down.”

“Oh.” And this time, she sounded pleasantly surprised, if a bit skeptical. “Why?”

“Because I’ve seen you around, and I know you’re a good person. It also doesn’t hurt that you’re hot as hell.”

He smiled genuinely at her and she returned it with one of her own.

“So,” she asked after a minute of comfortable silence. “How long did you want to stay out here?”

“Don’t know,” he said, looking at his watch. “It’s been a little over five minutes. Wanna stay ‘til ten?”

“Well,” she said, smirking at him. “We wouldn’t want to embarrass you or anything.”

He nodded, playing along. “You’re right. I can go fifteen, easy.”

She laughed and Dean felt good. His plan could work. They could do a few jumping jacks, muss their hair a little, and his father would be none the wiser. Things were going to be okay.


	2. Too Skilled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two awaits!

If there was anything Dean had realized, it was that he’d been lucky that first night. Ten years later, he had his conquests down to a science. Flirting with women had become second nature, but reading people was what it all came down to.

The pretty ones were the best and the easiest to pick up, but the sweet ones, like Lisa had been, and the horny ones were the ones he usually steered clear of. They were the hardest to persuade to stand down without argument, and getting one of them to go along with his plan was much harder than it had been that first time.

Yeah, he’d gotten extremely lucky with Lisa.

But he’d gotten much smarter since then. He’d learned to look out for a particular type of women. They were the ones that eyed his wallet when it was out, the ones that looked up at him with clever eyes and said, “buy me a drink.” Those were the ones that were the best because, for fifty bucks or the promise of a few rounds, they would gladly stand out in an alley with you for fifteen minutes while your father and brother sat inside, drinking, wondering how the hell you had such good luck with the ladies.

God, he was pathetic, but that didn’t stop him from doing it again and again.

“Another round, on me,” Dean said, setting the tray down in between two women, both of whom were dressed for style rather than attraction.

One of the women—Brenda? Bridget?—smiled largely and winked before she took the shot of tequila. The other just rolled her eyes, the assumption that her friend was getting laid plain on her face.

“I don’t normally do this,” Brandy? Bonny? said.

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that exact statement. Usually, it was true. Sometimes, though, it was as flimsy an excuse as the top she had on. This time, he couldn’t tell. To be honest, Dean didn’t really care whether it was true or not. Shameless flirting for a few rounds of drinks was nothing he wasn’t equipped to handle. It came naturally and, except for the couple of blissful—and extremely guilt-ridden—years that Sam was at Stanford, it was something that he dealt with so regularly that it was like breathing.

“Well then,” Dean said with a sly smile that promised more if she were to follow him. “I must be lucky to get to see you like this.” He stared deeply into her eyes until she blushed and looked away out of sheer bashfulness. It was cute, really.

“ _Unh-um_ ,” Sam boisterously cleared his throat.

Dean winked at… Brittany? before he turned to face his brother, a scowl coming reflexively to his face, though he was actually relieved to be distracted. This wasn’t the type of girl who would go for anything. She was getting just a little _too_ into him to be of any help.

“You should get that checked out, man,” Dean said. He turned to the side and smiled lazily at… Brea? who was peeking at him through the side of her eye as if to ask, _do you know this man?_

“Dean,” Sam said, obviously displeased with the show. “I may have found a lead.”

“Sammy,” he nearly groaned, hoping Sam would push the issue, but at the same time, trying to keep his cover.

“This is important, Dean!”

“Fine,” he bit out. He turned to… Briella! That was it. “Excuse me for a moment.”

She pouted.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be back.”

He eyed her as he walked away, causing Sam to give a disgusted snort.

“What?” Dean asked, offended.

“Could you be more of a horn dog?” Sam asked.

Dean didn’t answer, not that it was a real question anyway, but he wished he could. He’d wanted to tell his brother for so long. When Sam asked about sex, when Sam got his first real girlfriend, when Sam left for college, when their father disappeared and Dean broke into Sam’s house to get him—there were plenty of opportunities to breach the subject, but it just never seemed like the right time.

How do you tell your totally, one hundred percent straight brother, who was raised by your homophobic father, what you were?

Dean didn’t know.

“Does it really matter?” Dean asked.

No, his mind supplied, even as Sam rolled his eyes. It didn’t matter.

“Just get on with it already.”

“Fine,” Sam huffed before he laid out all of his newly acquired facts about the case.

Dean’s mind wandered, only half-paying attention to what his brother was saying. The rest of him was imagining himself finally coming out to Sam, not that he’d take him seriously. Dean had created enough of a reputation for being a lady’s man that, even if he were to full on make out with a dude in front of Sam, his brother would just chalk it up to too much alcohol, a spell gone wrong, or a practical joke that had him at the butt of it.

It was too late to tell anyone, so now all he could really do was what he was already doing, flirting with women and pretending to sleep with them so he wouldn’t have to face the decision he’d made not to be honest in the first place.

While Sam talked, Dean took a large swig of his beer. At the very least, he could drown his misery in alcohol. Life always seemed better after he’d had a few. Besides, if he got completely wasted, maybe he’d grow big enough balls to come clean to Sam.

Dean didn’t hold out much hope for that plan, though. He was too skilled of a drinker to allow himself to slip up, especially with something that he’d kept inside for so long. It was second nature to him now to keep it hidden. Lies would come much more easily to his mouth than the truth ever would. And wasn’t that just depressing?

Dean took another drink of his beer. Damn, he needed something stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three to come Monday, Fearless Readers. Thanks for sticking with me so far :)


	3. Three (Dozen) Stiff Drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-expressed straight to your favorite fanfiction site: Chapter Three of Simple Man.

“Here, Dean,” Sam said handing him the bottle of good scotch he’d bought.

Dean took a large swig and handed it back, not even bothering to look at his brother.

He stared into the flames of the grave, the easiest salt-and-burn he’d ever been on, and thought about how discouraging it was that he still couldn’t find the nerve to say anything to his brother. The flames were warm against his face and Dean found a bit of black humor in the fact that he was actually enjoying the heat coming from the desecrated remains of the body they’d put to rest.

He really was a sick fuck, but the night was cold—would’ve snowed if there’d been enough moisture in the air—and Dean couldn’t bring himself to care all that much about what it was that was keeping him from freezing his ass off so long as it kept on doing it.

 “…even listening?”

“Hmm?” he asked, not remembering enough of the conversation to even pretend he’d been paying attention.

“Nothing,” Sam mumbled, definitely offended, but trying not to be too pissed off at his completely wasted brother. Yeah, Dean had drank just a little too much tonight—or just enough if a dreamless sleep was what he was striving for, which it was.

“You ever wonder,” Dean asked, “if you coulda done more? Not like, if we weren’t Hunters, but like… if we’d’ve just took the chance?”

He could see Sam’s eyes on him through his peripheral vision, but didn’t turn to face him. Dean was straying into dangerous territory, but something inside of him didn’t want to hold back.

“Is this about Lisa?” Sam asked.

Dean swallowed another swig of scotch, but didn’t answer. It _was_ about Lisa, just not what Sam thought. Sam thought there was actually a possibility of Ben being his kid since they’d ‘hooked up’ years ago—and who’d’ve thought he’d run into her again after all this time?—but it wasn’t that. It was impossible, for one. For another…

All of a sudden, the scotch turned sour in his mouth and he wanted nothing more than to get the fuck out of the damn graveyard they were in and pass the hell out in some trashed out half-star hotel.

“Dean?” Sam asked.

He’d been too quiet, too contemplative. “Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s about Lis.”

“You think that Ben…?”

Dean shook his head. “No, she had him tested,” he lied. “’s not mine.”

Sam nodded and turned his eyes back to the flames.

Dean couldn’t tell whether Sam was relieved or not, but it didn’t matter about that anyway. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said all of a sudden.

Sam looked confused for a half-second before realization dawned on him. “Yeah,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I, uh… I was gonna propose… to Jess. I had the ring for, like, two months. Kept telling myself I was ‘waiting for the right time.’ I know, pathetic, right?” He gave a self-depreciating smile and a disgusted chuckle.

“Not pathetic,” Dean whispered, but Sam didn’t hear him. Between the amount of alcohol he’d consumed and how far he was lost in his thoughts, he probably wouldn’t have heard Dean if he’d been speaking normally, let alone believed him.

“Couldn’t tell her how I felt. I tried to blame Dad for that, tried like hell. He never told me, you know that? He never told me he loved me, not until he was already dead. And I tried to blame you. Hell, you’re just as closed off as he was. But you know something, Dean?”

Dean didn’t like how the conversation was going. It wasn’t because Sammy was blaming him, but because he’d been the one to ask the question that caused the pain—had been the one to cause the pain in the first place—and it was only coming out now after two thirds of a bottle of good scotch and Dean catching him at a particularly vulnerable moment.

“I was a coward,” Sam said. “I just couldn’t buck the fuck up and ask her. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference. I mean, she still would have died, but I would’ve at least _known_ ….” Sam trailed off, and both of them stared at the fire.

 _You haven’t told them, have you?_ Lisa had asked. _You’re still pretending._

Dean hadn’t known what to say, just flushed in shame and looked away. It was too big of a lie now. He just couldn’t let go of it.

_It’s only going to get bigger, Dean. Just think about it this way: what’s Sam going to think when he finds out—because he’s going to find out; you can’t hide it forever—that you’ve been keeping this from him? The longer you wait, the worse it’s going to be._

But Dean didn’t know how to say it. He’d only ever told one person who mattered, and that was Lisa. He couldn’t bring himself to say it even to himself. How was he supposed to tell his _brother_? And what would Sam do? He couldn’t handle it if Sam left him. His brother was the only family he had left. Even if he didn’t hate him for… he would hate him for not telling him.

_Would you rather he found out by walking in on you, or because you told him?_

Like that was ever going to happen. He was too scared to even say the word, let alone _do_ anything. He’d fooled around some, but for all intents and purposes, he was a virgin. God, he was pathetic. Pathetic and a coward. He was almost glad his bill was gonna come due in a few months. At least that way, it would almost feel like atonement.

_You know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, right?_

_Of course_ , he’d said, but he was ashamed nonetheless. He was letting everyone down, one at a time. He let his mom down when he didn’t save her from being burned alive. He let his father down the first time he touched himself with the wrong sort of underwear model behind his lids. He let Bobby and the Roadhouse crew down by letting the Gates open and flooding the world with demons. Now, he was letting Sam down in more ways than he could count.

Of course he should feel ashamed. There was nothing inside of him that couldn’t feel shame. Every part of him caused trouble, caused the people he loved to hurt. There wasn’t a shred of decency inside of him. A part of him couldn’t wait to pay the devil his due.

“C’mon. Let’s get outta here, man,” Sam said, elbowing Dean. “We got a long day tomorrow.”

Dean nodded, took a final swig from the bottle and followed his brother out of the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Third chapter is complete. Fourth chapter to come tomorrow (Tuesday). And, my dear Fearless Readers, it will contain our favorite blue-eyed member of Team Free Will. Yep, I mean Cas :)


	4. Foretold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is here :)

_Never Been Touched_ wasn’t even a concept in Hell. It used everything it could against him to break his spirit, and he was broken in more ways than one. Dean couldn’t feel the time passing over the new and always inventive tortures that Alistair had for him. The demon never slept and neither did Dean.

He supposed he didn’t need sleep, no longer having a body, but it was a hard habit to break. He wanted rest, even if it was for just a few minutes from the pain that was constant and terrifying. Even trying to rest would bring about new sets of tortures that struck the thoughts of sleep from his mind. There was no need to sleep, not when it meant Alistair would…

Dean had only one small reprieve. He couldn’t tell how long apart the intervals were, but Alistair would hand him whatever device he was using—scalpel, whip, chains, those were his favorites—and ask him one simple question. Dean hadn’t understood, at first, what the choice was. He couldn’t lift his head or even open his mouth to speak. It was then that Alistair learned to leave his head, mouth especially, untouched so that he could understand and answer properly.

No.

That was the word he clung to. When demons moved in and out of him, when the pain was so intense that he couldn’t stand it, when fingers probed into his tortured flesh, pulling hoarse screams from him, it was that word he clung to. Then when he’d been there so long that he couldn’t remember his name, when his life was nothing but a blur of darkness and pain, when the last of his hope had been stripped of him, he reached for the word, the one that he’d always said, but he found another in its place, warmer, easier than the other word, and he wondered why he’d never used it before, why he’d forgotten it had existed.

Yes.

The days were long and hard, but not for him, not anymore. There was no rest for him, not for the wicked, not for the ones who tortured helpless souls in The Pit. One by one, they flitted to him, and one by one, they left, broken and battered. He knew how to break one’s spirit. He’d spent a lifetime breaking his own, after all, even before he’d taken residence in Hell.

His soul was broken, his spirit gone. The will to live was nonexistent, and if someone had come up to him then and tore his soul to shreds, he wouldn’t miss it. The days were stretched out interminably bleak before him and there was nothing but the automatic urge to torture and maim.

He watched with blank eyes at the angels’ siege. Demons fell, torn apart by their might. He waited for yet another due to come, for the angels to target him next. When he looked this time, though, it was to the bright white of an angel’s grace, surrounding him. It wasn’t painful, not at all, wasn’t the ripping feeling he’d come to expect from the screams of the demons falling around him.

The angel clung tightly to him, bathing him in a glow of comfort and peace. It had been so long since he’d felt anything like it that he reached for it and held tight, never wanting to lose the sensation again, wanting to die before it happened to him again.

 _Please_ , he begged silently, _don’t let go._

But the angel didn’t hear his unspoken cries. With a touch to his shoulder, he was pried from the warmth of the angel and thrust into the cold, damp ground with an empty feeling inside of him.

He needed… He needed…

Dean didn’t know what he needed, and only by the print on his arm could he be sure it had actually happened.

 

* * *

 

“Good things _do_ happen, Dean.”

And wasn’t that just a load of crap? “Not in my experience,” Dean said. He’d seen people torn to shreds, souls tortured by demons, and Hunter after Hunter fall in front of him. If good things actually happened, it was never to him.

“What’s the matter?” Castiel asked. His forehead creased in curiosity, and he looked straight through Dean as if he could see inside of him. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved,” he surmised.

Hell, maybe he could. “Why’d you do it?” Dean asked. That was the one thing he didn’t know.

He knew that, even now when he shouldn’t trust the angel, he could feel nothing but the warmth of his grace putting him at ease. He knew that something big was happening and that his brother wasn’t handling things well and that Bobby was worried and that everything, in all likelihood, was _not_ going to be alright. But he also knew that, beneath the obvious ‘bigger plan,’ the angel was telling the truth, that he was trying in his own way to comfort him. What he didn’t know was why, in the middle of it all, they’d sought to pull him from Hell when no, he didn’t deserve to be saved.

“Because God commanded it,” Castiel said, not misunderstanding the question.

Dean was surprised. It was the first time the angel had lied to him since he’d crawled his way from the grave. For some reason, he expected more from Castiel than the small pang he felt in his chest when he was lied to. Dean was angry. More than that, he was hurt.

_Was it so much to ask for the goddamn truth?_

“Because we have work for you,” Castiel said. The look Dean caught before the angel departed was one of surprise, as if he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this wasn't as long as I'd originally intended, but the last part is definitely longer. It will be up tomorrow, Readers, and it will conclude this fic. Read on!


	5. Take Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter, Fearless Readers. This is it, the end, la finale. I thought about continuing, but I figured that this was the perfect place to end it, especially with the Dean/Lisa scene at the end of the episode this fic takes place during (s05e17 "99 Problems" SPOILERS). Read on!

“He found a liquor store? And he drank it?” Dean asked skeptically. Sure, Cas had been out of contact for a while, what with Joshua telling them that God was AWOL, but he didn’t think the guy would go downhill so fast.

“That’s what I’m telling you. He’s not doing so well, Dean. I’ve never seen him so messed up.”

“Yeah, but he’s gonna be fine, right? Just sober up and stop the apocalypse?”

The look Sam gave accused him of being the stupidest person on the planet. “No, Dean. I don’t think he’s just gonna sober up and stop the apocalypse.”

“Well what do you want me to do, Sam?”

“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated. “I have to go help a priest kill his own daughter. Why don’t you dig through that head of yours and come up with something? I mean, you’re a Winchester. You know all about disappointment. Relate.”

Then Sam was gone and Dean was left alone in the hotel room to think. It was something he’d resolved to do less of, but for some reason he never seemed to be able to. Thinking was hardly a good thing in these kinds of situations after all; it was probably the worst thing in the universe if it all came down to Dean Winchester’s plans.

_You know what_?he thought. _Screw it._

He walked outside, trying his best to turn off his brain. Thinking always got him into trouble. It was time to let impulse take reign with this one. The Impala sat right outside of the room, sleek and black, just what he needed. He went straight to her trunk and tossed his duffle inside to buy himself a little more time. With a thunk, the trunk shut, and the distraction was over much too quickly.

Cas sat on the bench, hangover getting the better of him if the way he was kneading his forehead was any indication. Dean just stopped for a minute to look. It was rare to see Cas looking so vulnerable.

_A poor example of one_ , he’d said. A poor example of an angel.

Dean knew that was what he was thinking. He could feel light tingles of emotion swirling around inside of Cas, complete chaos compared to the impassively self-assured drive Dean normally got from him. The angel was hurting and Dean just didn’t know what to do.

Then Cas let out a low groan and he realized that he could at least help with one thing. Dean dipped his hand into the car through the open driver’s side window and grabbed the bottle of aspirin he kept on hand for occasions such as these. “Heads up,” he said.

Cas did as he asked just in time to catch the bottle he threw.

“How many should I take?” And the way he sounded was so defeated that Dean was sure nothing he said would make any difference.

“You?” he joked, trying to keep things light. “You should probably just down the whole bottle.”

Cas peered intently at the bottle for a moment before speaking. “Thanks,” he said. Dean knew he meant it for more than just the pills.

“Yeah, don’t mention it.” What the hell was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to fix this. “Yeah, I’ve been there,” he said, talking just for the sake of talking. Sam said to relate, right? Might as well give it a shot. It wasn’t like he could screw Cas up even more than he already had. The angel had been doomed since he’d pulled him out of Hell. “I’m a big expert on deadbeat dads, so… Yeah, I get it.” Damn, this conversation was depressing the hell out of him, and he hadn’t even said anything yet.

_Why is that?_ he wondered. Hunting, business, he had no problems talking to Cas about that stuff. He was generally an extrovert after all. Talking to people was something he just… _did_. _Why is it so hard_ _to talk to Cas like this?_

“I know how you feel,” Dean finished lamely, letting the words trail off into silence. He couldn’t look at Cas out of sheer embarrassment.

“How do you manage it?” Cas asked quietly.

Dean had to keep himself from smiling. It wasn’t much of a lifeline, but it was there, ready and waiting to help reel him in. “On a good day,” he said, smirking slightly, “you get to kill a whore.”

And wasn’t that just the basis of everything he did? His life sucked ass, always one thing, one demon, one monster, one ghost, one secret, one lie, one death after another, but there was always something to make it just the slightest bit better. Sure, when the G-man himself invented bad luck, he made it with the Winchesters in mind, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t take pleasure in the little things.

Cas looked up at him then, eyes focusing that little bit more, realizing just what it meant to lose hope and keep moving on. Dean held his gaze, lending enough strength to tide him over. The chaos was still there, inside the angel, but it lifted just a little, enough to hold him until he could find something to believe in again.

_If only,_ Dean hoped silently, _that something could be me._

But he knew it couldn’t be. If Cas put his faith in him, there would only be disappointment because Dean knew what the future held for all of them, knew just what he was going to do to stop what he saw from coming true. Still, it didn’t keep him from wanting.

“Dean,” Cas started, eyes still latched intently on his.

“We should go,” he said, breaking eye contact and turning away for a moment to get his bearings.

“Dean.” Cas was persistent.

“Don’t wanna keep Sam waiting.”

“Dean,” Cas’s voice was much closer than it had been, and when Dean turned around, the illusion of personal space became just that.

Dean cleared his throat. “What are you doing, Cas?” he asked, but Cas wasn’t looking him in the eye anymore. He was staring intently at his chin. No, not his chin. His lips. “Cas?”

Cas leaned in and captured Dean’s mouth. Chapped lips molded themselves to Dean’s, and before he could think about it, he was kissing the angel back. They stood like that, in the parking lot in the middle of the night, a Hunter and his angel, pressed together so close Dean couldn’t tell where he ended and Cas began.

Being able to feel everything that shot through Cas in that moment was overwhelming. It was as if all of the chaos in his angel had been taken to the back burner, while the front one burned with thoughts and feelings about _Dean_.

Dean broke the kiss first, trying to keep himself from smiling and failing miserably at it. This couldn’t happen. Cas was an angel of the Lord, and Sam didn’t know anything about Dean’s sex life—or lack thereof—and the apocalypse was in full swing, and every angel and their brother was after them. No, it wasn’t the time.

And even if it was, he thought, it would never work. Sammy had tried the whole ‘normal life’ thing, and if anyone could have succeeded, it would have been him. Dean didn’t stand a chance, especially with the angel.

The thoughts didn’t wipe the smile from his face, though, and they weren’t even enough to take away the feeling Cas had given him, of being _wanted_. It had been a while since he’d felt anything like that.

“Cas,” Dean began, but it was the angel’s turn to cut him off.

“If there is one thing I believe in, Dean, it is you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, Readers :) Let me know what you think.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands *clap**clap* If you're happy and you know it, clap your hands *clap**clap* If you're happy and you know it, and you really wanna show it... If you're happy and you know it, kudos and comment *clicks kudos button**flies off into the sunset**clap**clap*


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